A Leave of Absence
by Lady NeverAfterNon
Summary: The Avengers take a well deserved break. Fury checks up on his risky gamble in the hospital, Natasha and Clint make breakfast, Stark and Banner explore the wonders of shawarma, Rogers fulfills a promise, and Thor and Jane play co-op in Portal 2. R&R!
1. Fury and Coulson

**Author's Note: **_This is going to be a five or six chapter ficlet, each depicting what goes down in the aftermath of the Avengers film for the various superheros, just a heads up. Hope you guys like it, please let me know what you think! _

_Nick Fury visits one of his more riskier gambles resting up in the hospital after multiple surgeries._

_Read and review please!_

**Disclaimer:** _I own nothing._

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**Chapter 1: **Dearly Departed

**By:**_ Lady NeverAfterNon_

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Nick Fury prided himself on being a good spy.

Good spies were the keystone that held nations together, the difference between survival of the many, and complete downfall. Good spies saved the world. _So why,_ he thought, glaring at the small white FedEx package sitting on his desk, _was he constrained to the molasses slow wiles of the internet postal ordering system? _He scooped up the battered box and stuffed it into the pocket of his leather jacket. Fury strode out of his office, ignoring the rather frazzled look his assistant shot him as he left.

The poor kid was an intern sent over from MIT, and as Fury punched the star marking the ground floor in the elevator, a new cacophony of phones ringing started up. He masked a grin. His assistant had given up trying to plead his boss into staying, and was now trying to field about fifty different new calls from various pissed off world leaders.

Loki had left a big, ginormous mess in the wake of his defeat. A mess Nick Fury was still trying to clean up. So much money in damage, and so many different lives lost. Just because the battle was over, didn't mean the work had stopped.

He drummed his fingers against the box against his thigh. His driver navigated the black Cadillac Escalade through traffic expertly. They were making good time, but Nick Fury was not a patient man when it came to the little things. He glowered as a beat up yellow taxi cut them off. Again. It honked angrily, and he entertained the idea of either flashing his badge or shooting something. Either one sounded good at the moment. Fury left off tapping his fingers impatiently against the box in his coat, and instead massaged his temples, trying to head off the new migraine brewing in his head.

The world wasn't aware just how close it had come to being annihilated, or worse, enslaved by a megalomaniac with daddy issues.

It could have been a lot worse, he admitted, watching a massive red and white crane lower beams of construction supplies to workers on one of the damaged skyscrapers. The Avengers had thwarted a much bigger crisis than the world gave them credit for. It could have been _a lot_ worse.

The car came to a stop in front of New York Presbyterian Hospital. Fury went straight to the ICU, weaving his way through hospital staff and patients. The hospital was a efficient and sterilized hub of chaos, so much life and death contained in a small space. Fury appreciated the chaos: it looked like a mess from the outside, but was a methodical and systematic environment that got things done.

The room he wanted was secluded from other patients and had a nondescript armed card holding an M240B machine gun. The guard nodded at him as Fury pushed the door open.

The room was dark and colorless save for the large TV on the wall. Fury went to the window and shoved the curtains open. The room had had to be specially prepared for its guest: the glass was one way and bullet proof, it allowed in the light and view of outside, but the room itself was hidden from snipers or the nosy viewer. It helped that they were several stories up, but one could never be too sure.

"What's happening outside?" asked the room's sole occupant, "I must admit it's very inconvenient not being able to open my own curtains."

Fury turned back from the window and dragged a chair up to the side of the bed, the metal legs squealing in protest across the white linoleum floor. He produced a knife and slashed the tape on his FedEx package.

"Not much," he replied, sticking his fingers in the box and digging around the packaging peanuts, "Stark's fixing that garish monstrosity he calls a building, and playing host to Bruce. Steve disappeared almost right after we wrapped things up, along with one of our motorcycles. Said something about a promise, whatever that means. Natasha and Clint are still on base, but they've asked to be relieved temporarily from active duty. Thor took his bratty sibling back with him to Asgard, but he asked for directions to Dr. Foster's new lab before he left."

Fury withdrew a pack of antique collector's Captain America cards and tossed them onto Phil Coulson's bed.

"Thanks," Coulson said, inspecting them.

Fury shrugged. "I figure it was the least I could do after I trashed your last pair."

"The whole finger paint with my blood _WAS_ a tad creepy."

"It got the job done," Fury muttered, "Gave the Avengers the boot in the ass they needed."

Coulson rolled his eyes and traced a finger over one of the glossy cards. "Ah well, I'm always happy to bleed for the cause."

"Don't be so dramatic. I'll get Rogers to sign them when he comes back," Fury said.

"Thanks," Coulson said, "When can I leave again?"

"Not for a while, Loki punched a pretty good sized hole through you, if I recall correctly."

Coulson winced and rubbed the extensive lattice of white bandages on his chest and shoulders gently. "Ah, yes, how could I forget? And then you ruined my favorite pack of cards."

"I _said_ I was sorry. It was for the greater good."

Coulson glowered at him. "Ruining an expensive pack of trading cards is almost never for the greater good."

"Whatever. Everyone got what they wanted: the world is saved, Loki's ass was kicked, and you have your stupid cards back."

"I miss my old ones."

"These are the same cards! I got them off Ebay, from some old guy in Houston who lives with his mother."

"I suppose, though I would feel a lot better if I could eat something other than pudding and oatmeal."

"You could go back to the tube feeding, if you're going to complain about it."

"You'd complain too if you had to eat oatmeal that looked like snot and glue everyday," Coulson muttered.

Fury sighed. "Alright, I'll work something out."

The two men were quiet a moment. For all their banter, they were aware that just how close they had come to failing at saving the world. The Avengers had been scrambled together at the last moment, and Coulson's sacrifice had been the final push they needed to save the world. Fury was glad that the ultimate sacrifice hadn't been needed, but they both knew that if either of them had to pay it, it would be done.

"Alright, I need to head back. I left Presley in charge of things while I was gone, and if I'm away any longer I think his head is going to explode. Need anything else?"

"Yep, that Diablo 3 expansion pack I had pre-ordered would be nice."

"Don't push it."

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_To be continued..._


	2. Clint and Natasha

**Author's Note:** _A day off means a lazy day in bed, and multiple courses of breakfast and coffee. The slates aren't really clean, not by a long shot, but the Black Widow and Hawkeye feel like they're off to a good start._

**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing._

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**Chapter 2: **Breakfast of Champions Equal Naked Omelettes

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Natasha eased out from under Clint's arm, immediately missing the familiar warm weight and not liking the cold wood floor under her toes. His apartment at the S.H.I.E.L.D. base was tasteful and classy, but not for the first time on a cold morning did she wish he'd slummed it and gone for shag carpet instead of cherry hardwood floors. Wood was nice to look at it, but _damn_ it was cold in the morning. Besides, carpet made it easier to sneak up on people. She gritted her teeth, told herself to suck it up, and padded out of the room to the kitchen.

Cool morning light slanted in through the tall windows, casting geometric patterns on the floor. Out of habit she cased the room for possible exit points, even though she knew his apartment almost as well as her own.

Yawning, she made her way to the fridge. Clint's shiny stainless steel Kenmore was completely barren save for the groceries that they'd lugged home the other night. She pulled out the eggs and began cracking them into a mixing bowl, and pushed start on the coffee maker. Natasha didn't kid herself, she was more of a 'survive on roots and Bambi's forest friends while scoping out enemy territory' type of girl than Rachel Ray. She was no chef. All the same though, it was kind of hard to screw up an omelette.

Five eggs went into the bowl. Natasha supposed it would be healthier to take out most of the yolks, but then she'd just work it off later the next time the Avengers needed her to kill someone.

Her heart involuntarily gave that familiar little lurch when she remembered just how many lives she had taken over the course of her career. She dropped her fork and the metal clattered against the rim of the bowl. Her palm was clean and unblemished, but her mind superimposed the years and years of blood that stained her soul. She clenched her fist. So much blood, such a debt. Would she ever be able to repay it? In contrast, the whipped eggs in the bowl looked frothy and golden yellow. A clean bright color that was directly opposite her mood.

She shook her head, and reached for a block of Gouda, stripping off the cellophane wrapper. How long would it be before the Avengers were called on again? These moments of silence and peace where she and Clint had time to just_ be_ were very few and far between. It was like their apartments were a dream, a peaceful sleep that they would have to eventually wake up from.

She shredded the cheese into the whipped eggs. It may be just a dream that would end, but that didn't mean that it couldn't go on for a bit.

Two sun browned arms slid around her waist and Natasha had to squash the urge to maim their owner on pure reflex. Clint chuckled, as though he knew exactly what she was trying to keep from doing, and kissed her cheek.

"Good morning," he said, morning voice low and pleasantly scratchy.

Natasha snorted and turned back to the crumbly white Gouda. "You almost lost both arms a second ago. You sure it's a good morning?"

He pressed another kiss to her shoulder and turned to the refrigerator. "I think I could take you."

"Sure sweetie, and I didn't knock you in the head hard enough a few days ago to dislodge the evil Norse villain's mind control, either."

Clint set the carton of mushrooms, the clove of garlic, an onion, and a cutting board that he'd been juggling and folded his arms around her. "Thank you," he whispered into her hair, "Again, for not giving up on me."

"I think you thanked me enough last night," she said, wriggling away, "Besides. You'd have done the same for me."

"I would have done the same for you," he agreed.

Natasha set aside the bowl of whipped eggs and cheese and reached for the skillet, turning on the stove with her free hand. A ring of blue flame flared under the grate as the gas made a clicking noise. The flame caught and settled into a steady blue glow. The skillet clattered as it settled on to the stove, and the pat of butter she dumped in skated around the black metal, sizzling madly, and leaving a shiny butter trail in its wake.

Clint reached around her to toss in the freshly chopped garlic and she grinned when he didn't just slid around her, but instead pressed himself up against her, molding his chest to her back. She swallowed a laugh.

In dreams people often said and did things that they would never consider doing in real life. Normally Natasha didn't have any respect for that lovey dovey crap normal people seemed so fond of. Love just made you an easier target. Normal people usually didn't spend their time getting shot at by megalomaniacs with daddy issues.

But here, in his apartment, it was a dream, a world apart from the rest of the world. If he had slipped up and tried to kiss her anywhere but either one of their refuges, she would have probably punched him in the kidney or kicked him in the head.

But it wasn't the real world; not here, not now.

So she twisted in his arms and planted a kiss right on his full, firm mouth. He chuckled, the sound warming her right down to her toes, and backed her into the refrigerator. She wound her arms around his neck. A muscle worked in his jaw and his clear eyes kept flicking down to glance at her mouth.

He was looking entirely too predatory, and she was hungry. Time to redirect the speeding train.

Natasha prided herself in getting out of tough situations, and Clint Barton's wooing attempts were no different. She poked him on the nose, her poke punctuated by the growling of her stomach. He looked a little sheepish.

"Sorry," he said, laughing, "Got carried away."

She swatted him on the butt when he turned back to the stove to shove the garlic around, making sure it was browning.

"I wasn't complaining," she murmured, adding in the chopped mushrooms, "But I am going to need fuel if we're going to stay holed up here in your love nest."

"It is _not_ a love nest!" he protested, vehemently prodding the skillet contents with a spatula.

"It kind of is," she said.

"It is not! No self respecting superhero will admit to having a love nest."

Natasha retrieved a plastic container of spinach from the refrigerator and dumped the dark green leaves in. "Well, duh, but that doesn't mean it isn't true."

"_Not_ a love nest," he muttered, "That makes me feel like some old weird creeper."

"Well you are older than me," she pointed out, "And we _did_ skulk back here the moment Fury was done debriefing."

"Whatever. Hand me the eggs, woman."

Natasha balled up a fist and punched him in the kidney, hard. "Try again sweetie."

He batted his eyes at her, while holding a hand to his bruising side. "Would you please deign to hand me the eggs, oh lovely one, so that I might finish the omelettes and feed the insatiable beast in your stomach?"

Natasha considered his rebuttal, then handed him her egg and cheese mixture. "I'll allow that. Here you go."

He poured in the eggs and she reclined against the counter to watch him. This was her favorite part: watching him stand in his kitchen wearing nothing but a stupid 'kiss the cook apron' and his tanned skin while he rotated the pan, making sure the omelettes came out fluffy and even. She preferred to pull on a nightie at least; one never knew when one might have to beat something to death, but Clint had no such qualms.

The tendons in his arms and hands flexed subtly as he rolled the skillet, and she had no problem oogling him while he did it. Clint Barton was a good looking bastard, and she knew it.

He turned, caught her staring, and grinned at her. "Spatula?"

She worked the spatula under the massive omelettes, expertly flipping them in half and onto plates. He turned the stove off and stripped off the apron, tossing it onto the floor. He grabbed both plates and she followed him back to the bedroom with coffee. They'd clean up later.

A minute later, they were both tangled up in the sheets, scarfing down hot spinach and mushroom omelette and arguing over the ketchup bottle.

Natasha felt like she didn't deserve a lot in this world, she had done a lot of bad things to a lot of good people. She didn't deserve mercy, especially not from a good man like Clint. For all he argued against it, he _was_ a good man. Before she had met him, she was drowning and didn't even know it. She fought the urge to run her fingers over the rough pink scar on her chest. An inch closer to her heart, and the bolt would have killed her. Instead, he saved her, in more ways than one.

She was grateful that the Universe had allowed her to meet and keep him, and as long as they were together, they would handle whatever life threw at him.

His eyes met hers, and he smiled. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and he didn't need to say anything to show that he agreed.

He just leaned forward, gently tugged the remains of her omelette out of her hand and set their plates aside, and kissed her.

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_To be continued..._


	3. Banner, Pepper, and Stark

**Author's Note: **_Whew it's been a while. Sorry about that! It's been a while since I've really cranked anything out, school and work have been rough so my writing may be a little off. Sorry if it is, I'll go back over it later and look at it with a fresh head to see if it needs fixing. Anyway, two chapters left! Please read and review!_

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**Chapter 3: **The Misuse of Expensive Furniture

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"Do you think it needs more basting?"

"You've whacked it twice already in the last minute or so, leave it alone."

"Bah. There can never be too much whacking. Sauce is delicious."

Oh god.

Pepper paused outside the door to one of Stark's many personal living rooms in the Stark Tower. She carefully set down the picnic hamper Stark had requested half an hour ago and wondered if she should open the door. In the years of her career in Stark's employ she'd heard a lot of things, and had heard much tamer through closed doors, and had decided them safe to open. Most of those doors she'd regretted opening instantly.

Blast. He had requested the picnic hamper and its contents. She had no choice but to enter and damn the consequences. Hopefully her retinas wouldn't pay the price for her bravery. One would think that she'd be used to it by now, but she never did.

Pepper picked up the hamper and pushed open the door with a loud "Ready or not, here I come."

The scene in front of her was not what she expected, but it wasn't exactly a good thing either.

_'Well,'_ Pepper thought, _'it could be worse._'

Stark had essentially dug what amounted to a massive fire pit in the floor of the living room, and he and Banner were feeding the live coals in the bottom with squirts of lighter fluid every now and then. A massive hunk of browned meat hung suspended from the ceiling by a heavy chain. Bowls of thick viscous amber colored sauce littered the once pristine studio apartment. As Pepper watched, Banner grabbed one and poured it over the meat.

"You missed a spot," Stark said, pointing helpfully at some microscopic piece that looked to Pepper just as sauce covered as the rest of it.

Banner inspected the imaginary bare spot. "I did not," he growled, turning faintly green around the edges.

"Alright you win," Stark said raising his hands, "Chill out."

Pepper chose that moment to insert herself into the room. "Stark, sweetie, are you aware that you cooking meat in a penthouse floor of a multi-million dollar building?" she said sweetly, gritting her teeth.

Stark wisely chose to ignore the poison coated sugar in her voice. Instead he swept her into a hug and kissed her cheek. "Loki already wrecked most of it, what's one more itty bitty little room?"

"I don't think your insurance is going to see it that way."

Banner rolled his eyes. "That's what I told him."

"Hey!" Stark said, pointing the baster at them, "It's not like there's a clause in my insurance that covers Intergalactic Temper Tantrums anyway."

Pepper sighed. "True."

Stark took the picnic hamper from her and began handing out plates and forks. Pepper had to admit, perched on the remains of a sofa and basking in the steady heat of the fire, that it was pleasant. The large window that spanned the length of the studio apartment from floor to ceiling had been shattered by one of Loki's weird alien minions. The room was chilly save for the area around the fire.

"So, what have you boys been up to?" Pepper asked, eyeing the giant hanging brisket looking thing. "I certainly hope that was no one I knew."

She was joking, of course. Half joking. One never really knew for sure with Tony Stark.

"Shawarma, baby," Stark said, like that explained everything. Stark raised his arm and his Iron Man suit clicked into place around it. The blaster on his palm powered up and he took aim at the hanging meat skewer, squinting. "Let's see, if I shoot here-"

Banner batted his arm away. "I can't believe I'm saying this," he shook his head. "But civilized people use tools."

"This is technically a tool!"

"Yeah, a tool that blows things up. Use a knife."

Pepper smiled. "You beat me to it." She handed Stark a knife.

He grumbled but deactivated his hand cannon, instead opting to use the knife to carve a slab of meat off of the massive barbecue skewer. Pepper, meanwhile, was pulling warm circles of pita bread from the picnic basket. She held them out to Stark who dropped a steaming gooey strip of shawarma meat into each one.

They sat in a semi circle around the fire pit. Pepper was surprised to find herself enjoying it. The meat was savory and whatever sauce Stark had concocted (she hoped he paid their chef to make it) was absolutely delicious. There was a comfortable camaraderie that they shared: survivors of a madman's takeover breaking bread around a fire.

With that, another thought occurred to her. A less than pleasant one. Stark had almost died during Loki's siege She knew without a doubt that there would be some other villain down the line, some other psycho hell bent on ruling or destroying the world. For all his playboy bluster of not caring, Pepper knew that Tony Stark _did_ care. He cared what would happen to the world and he would be there standing in defense of it the next time. And the time after that.

Her food caught in her throat, and she swallowed hard. Sooner or later he was going to lose a fight and he wouldn't come home. She very nearly lost him to Loki's madness. She couldn't lose him, she couldn't. Glancing at Banner she was reminded of the rest of the brave men and women that wouldn't hesitate to defend their planet should they be needed, and she didn't want any of them to die.

Was it all worth it?

"How often is this going to happen?" Pepper asked softly. "How many times are we going to keep doing this?"

"What do you mean?" Banner asked.

"The damage, the lives lost. Someone or something else is going to be right on Loki's heels. When does this end? How many times do we keep doing this? Rebuilding? Licking our wounds waiting for the next calamity," she said, unable to look at them. She felt like a weak little girl, it was frustrating and it made her mad.

Stark was oddly serious. "As many times as we have to."

Banner nodded. "There's no one else. We have something special, we can do something that no one else can. We're needed. Who are we to refuse to step up?"

Pepper smiled sadly. She knew that there was no other real answer. All she could do was be her best and support where ever she could. It was the least she could do. She wasn't a hardened strategist like Captain America, a human tank like Banner, or a black ops ninja like Natasha. But she could support, and support she would. Stark would probably hear gripe a lot about all of his shenanigans, but she'd still stand by him no matter what.

"I need you to promise me something," Pepper said suddenly.

Stark gave her a big, meaty, shawarma laden smooch. "Anything dollface."

"I need you to come back. Always."

Banner looked down at his food, sad. All three of them knew that was a promise that Stark might not be able to keep. None of the Avengers would be able to keep it. Sooner or later someone would lose a fight. And that would be it.

Stark didn't promise. "I love you Pepper."

Pepper scooted closer to his side and took another bite of shawarma. That was good enough. She was content.

"Hey." Banner looked at his pita bread and then looked at Stark. "You had Pepper bring pita bread because you weren't sure yours was gonna come out. Did you turn the oven off?"

Stark threw up his hands. "Dammit!"

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_To be continued..._


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